


My Body Aches to Breathe Your Breath

by trinityofone



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Ghosts Made Them Do It, M/M, Murder-Suicide (referenced), Possession, Rimming, Something Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-12 01:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: “We should probably fight this,” Ryan says.“Probably,” Shane agrees, but his voice is muffled because he’s nipping at the curve of Ryan’s ass.





	My Body Aches to Breathe Your Breath

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in the fandom and CLASSY AS ALWAYS. Many thanks to siriaeve for betaing!
> 
> I haven't disclaimed a fic in about a decade, but for RPF, you gotta bring out the big guns (not Ryan's arms, though those are indeed present): THIS IS FICTION. IT HAS GHOSTS IN IT AND THEREFORE IS INHERENTLY NOT REAL. #shaniac
> 
> Title from Sarah McLachlan's "Possession," because I thought it was funny.

“We should probably fight this,” Ryan says.

“Probably,” Shane agrees, but his voice is muffled because he’s nipping at the curve of Ryan’s ass.

Ryan’s wriggling beneath him. He got stuck with his jeans halfway down his thighs, and now he’s shimmying under Shane like a sexy little fish. Shane considers calling Ryan his sexy little fish, but the shadow in his brain is getting confused and annoyed at all the talking and really wants him to stop. Shane is currently okay with that because it means he gets to bury his nose between Ryan’s cheeks. Ryan’s sweating and his skin smells musky and amazing. Shane wants to eat him up.

He’s pretty sure that’s his own, decidedly metaphorical thought, and not the shadow’s. Pretty sure.

He decides to put a mental pin in that.

Ryan is murmuring: “Totally definitely oughta be fighting this.” He lifts up; Shane can see the big wet stain his leaking cock has left on the floral bedspread. “Oh, god,” Ryan moans. He drops his head down onto the mattress, then reaches around with both hands and opens himself up to give Shane better access.

Aww. “Thanks, bud.” Then he thinks to himself, _Heh. Bud._ Shane can feel the shadow’s impatience, but he takes his time making the acquaintance of Ryan’s sweet little hole. He nudges around the rim with his tongue and Ryan keens; at a long lave he practically screams. 

“Fuck, Shane. Oh my god. Oh my god, I don’t care. You gotta. Please, please—”

“Please what?” Shane doesn’t like torturing Ryan, but he does enjoy pissing off the shadow, which has taken on the quality of an angry bat flapping around inside Shane’s skull. 

Okay, that’s a lie. Shane loves torturing Ryan. He loving almost all of this.

“Please just fucking _fuck_ me! Oh my god, Shane!” 

He’s dropped back down to his elbows and he cranes his neck around to glare. Shane wants to lick up all the pretty flush of Ryan’s annoyance; he wants to kiss him. So he does. The angle is awkward and they’re both shaky with need. Ryan’s eyes are blown almost black but Shane doesn’t see the shadow in them. He just sees Ryan.

He kisses him slow and sweet. Then he pulls back and says, “I promise I am going to raw you so hard.”

Ryan’s shoulders are still shaking, but Shane’s willing to bet it’s a little from laughter. “You better.” He wiggles his hips again, Shane’s little blue jeans merman. “But take off my goddamn boots first.”

He takes off Ryan’s boots and then his own matching pair. The length of his own body feels like an alien thing—the whole of his focus has been so intently on Ryan. Nothing wrong with that, although now that he looks his chinos are tented comically and wet at the front. He strips mechanically, watching as Ryan finally frees himself from his jeans. His dark hair is a rucked, sweaty mess, and his cheeks are flushed, and his lips all bit, and Shane wants to kiss him again. He scrambles back up the bed and stretches out onto his side next to Ryan, and wraps a palm around the back of his neck. Shane knows his need is urgent—more so than any physical need, there’s the dark curl at the back of his brain insisting that it’s so—but Ryan’s just so good for kissing. And Ryan seems to like it too, making happy little sounds, going loose and pliant in Shane’s arms. This is how it’d be, if Shane were running the show. Nice and sweet and gentle because he l—

He jerks back with a gasp. Like a puppet with a pulled string. Shane’s fists clench. So far all these urges have mostly just felt like heightened versions of his own—of course he secretly wants Ryan…and sometimes, he may even have fooled himself into thinking that Ryan might secretly want to at least _experiment_ with the idea of having him. But this is foreign and imposed, the press of a strong, powerful finger atop his spindly mortal spine. _Now. Now. TAKE. NOW._

Shane grits his teeth. He should have listened to Ryan, he should have fought harder and sooner, he should have _never_ listened to Ryan and come to this dumb house and let them both get possessed by entities that he doesn’t believe in and that shouldn’t exist and that, philosophy aside, _really need to take it down a notch._

“Shane.” Ryan’s voice cuts through the churning mess that is, technically, Shane’s brain. “Shane, it’s all right. I think we just need to give them what they want. I mean, they were in love before the murder-suicide or suicide pact or…whatever it was. Maybe we can help them finally find peace.”

“Ryan, you are so romantic and dumb.” _Peace_ is not a word Shane would use to describe anything his passenger is projecting. More like _need_ and _rage_ and lots of other category 10 emotions that Shane himself generally tries to avoid. He’s beginning to think that Ryan got the nicer ghost, which is perhaps not a punishment undeserved on Shane’s part, but also potentially a mistake on the part of Ragey McAngrypossessor, because while Ryan is sunshine personified, if you get him riled enough, he’s also about a billion times more likely to go supernova. 

Shane is impressed that he managed to come up with a multipart astronomy metaphor, because his head feels like it’s about to explode, and also his dick has been unceasingly hard as a rock this entire time. When he glances down at himself, the picture he presents is frankly ridiculous.

 _Ghost Viagra_ , Shane thinks, and he chuckles a little. It moves through him like the sigh of a released breath: he can feel his fists unclench, even as the shadow throws itself around in his mind like the Tasmanian Devil. Tentatively, Shane reaches out, and deliberately strokes his hand over Ryan’s bare flank. 

At the touch, Ryan seems to lose his grip on the wave of emotion and need he’s been holding back. His chest hitches and releases a sound that’s almost a sob. “Please, Shane—I want to.” His fingers scramble for Shane’s, clenching and releasing. “ _I_ want to—you, you asshole: give me your big dumb dick.”

“I am going to give you my big dumb dick,” Shane says sincerely. Then a thought dawns: “Lube.”

“Uh,” Ryan says. He’s started playing with himself, stroking almost absently, compulsively. It’s very distracting. “I have hair gel?”

“Can you use hair gel as lube?” Shane gets up and, weak-kneed, starts pawing through Ryan’s bag.

“I think it depends on the kind.”

Shane finds the tube, which does not have a helpful sticker on it proclaiming its safety for use in assfucking. “I’m going to google,” he declares.

The shadow is clearly not a fan of modern technology. It rages as Shane perches on the edge of the bed and peruses a couple of semi-helpful Yahoo! Answers pages. Shane bites his lip and ignores it.

When he starts to feel like another second of restraint will make his own spirit vacate his body, he turns and holds the screen up for Ryan to read. “I think it’s fine as long as we don’t use it on the reg,” he says, “but it’s your butt. Your call.”

Ryan tosses the phone aside with barely a glance. “You could use blood at this point and I wouldn’t care.”

The shadow perks back up at that idea, which somewhat dampens Shane’s excitement as Ryan slicks his hand with hair gel and then wraps it around Shane’s dick. “Okay, _Ricky_.”

Ryan laughs. Even more than his touch, Ryan’s laugh sends warmth pooling into Shane’s belly.

“Nah, still me,” Ryan says. “You know Ricky Goldsworth is a _total_ top.”

He’s reslicked his fingers and as he says this, he starts working them inside himself. Shane can hear his breath hitch. He can see the persistent tremor in his muscular shoulders, and it strikes Shane anew how brave Ryan is being, how brave Ryan always is when you step back and really look at him. 

“You’re amazing,” Shane says, which is clearly not the return piece of witty banter Ryan was expecting. His eyes fly open, and he looks at Shane, and Shane does the only thing he can do, which is say it again: “You’re amazing, Ryan. Fuck these ghosts. These ghosts can go _fuck themselves._ ” Shane lets himself grin. “I’m gonna make love to _you_ , baby!”

Ryan laughs and it’s like a white light traveling up the length of Shane’s spine. “Oh my god, you’re the worst.” He crawls into Shane’s lap, wrapping his arms around Shane’s neck. His nails scratch along Shane’s scalp as he kisses him. Then Ryan drops a guiding hand and slowly starts to ease Shane inside him.

Like a bell being rung, Shane’s dick comes back online. That feeling of disconnect between himself and his body: whether his own doing or the shadow’s, it’s ripped away in an instant. And suddenly his cock’s in Ryan. Suddenly he’s fucking Ryan. 

Shane feels possessed all over again. By an animal this time: something growly and aggressive that flips Ryan around onto his back. This means Shane slips out of him, but it also means Shane gets to ease into him all over again, and this time _he’s_ in control. He can work Ryan open, drive into that impossible tightness and heat and feel Ryan clench as he listens to him come completely undone. Screaming and clawing at Shane’s back. The windows rattle. The headboard bashes back hard into the wall. Desire and need and lust and—fucking love, man; so much stupid messy love: they all churn inside Shane like a maelstrom as he looks down at Ryan taking Shane’s dick with his eyes squeezed shut. The walls rattle like they’re in the midst of a hurricane; Shane hopes they bring the fucking house down.

The climax Shane feels building within him is undoubtedly the most epic of his entire life; the only problem is that as it builds, he can feel the shadow’s excitement build with it. This is what it wants. Only not just this. What it’s going to make happen at the peak of this. A heavy hand on Ryan’s throat should do it. Shane’s arm around his neck—a press, or perhaps a jerk and a snap. Final and brilliant. Then there’s a knife hidden inside the bed frame that should do for Shane.

Shane’s head feels like it’s in a dark cloud. It’s all so unreal. He’s fucking deep into Ryan, clutching at his calf and really plowing him in a way that he’d be impressed with under other circumstances. Ryan’s head is thrown back against the ugly frilly pillowcases, and his Adam’s apple is bobbing and he’s bloodied his own lip with his teeth and he’s moaning and writhing and taking it so well and Shane wants to be inside him forever and kiss his beautiful bloody mouth and strangle him a little, sometimes, but only metaphorically, you asshole ghost, you sick fuck, you’re dead and you don’t exist—no seriously, you forfeited your right to existence the first time you sex game murder-suicided, you don’t get to keep affecting the living, that’s not the way the world works, not in Shane’s book, or rather, his brain, which this is, this is SHANE’S BRAIN and SHANE’S LIFE and yes Shane is picturing scrawling that on his own grey matter in Sharpie and now he is underlining it, take that! Take that, ghost! And oh! Oh now, _now_ Shane is taking his mental Sharpie and writing on Ryan’s chest  PROPERTY OF SHANE (BUT ALSO REALLY OF RYAN BECAUSE PERSONAL AUTONOMY IS IMPORTANT, DICKHEAD) and that’s basically legally binding under ghost law, prove that it’s not, oh you can’t, you’re a ghost, but Shane’s not, Shane is alive and Ryan is alive and these are Ryan’s living muscles flexing beautifully beneath Shane’s body and this is Ryan’s living heart beating wildly in his chest as he comes, and this is Ryan’s living breath expelling Shane’s name so sweetly, and you, ghost, you can’t fucking have it. Not any of it.

“Nope,” Shane says, and with a groan pulls out and comes all over Ryan’s belly.

So of course Ryan laughs at him, but Shane doesn’t give a shit, flopping all noodly beside Ryan’s equally loose-limbed body, then taking him by the chin and kissing him. Ryan lets himself be kissed, even though Shane has to assume that like Shane himself, the shadow weight at the back of his brain is gone: the desperate undeniable urges vanquished, leaving just their own. And what Shane wants is to kiss Ryan a lot—and then carefully destroy all of tonight’s footage, and then possibly burn this house down.

They’re alive and it feels like such a gift. Ryan isn’t flinching away from him and everything isn’t ruined and they’re alive and this must be what Ryan feels like every time he makes it through the night when they’re on location. This sweet relief, this victory. Shane can’t stop grinning at him between kisses. “Amazing,” he says again.

“Well, it would have been,” Ryan says.

His eyes are no darker. His skin isn’t colder. But he is suddenly ice in Shane’s embrace, is black rage. His stupid strong arms flip Shane, despite his flailing, onto his back, and pin him hard. For a moment, Shane is alive with white-hot terror, and then something burrows down into him, like a smothering blanket. An ache blossoms inside his chest, almost impossible to bear: a desperate need to be wanted, to be loved—whatever the cost. His fingers unclench and he settles back against the pillow with a sigh.

He can feel Ryan’s hands hot on his throat. Ryan’s thumbs dragging along his collarbone—almost sweet, almost sensual. He’s frightened, but isn’t that what true love is? Fear? Sacrifice?

Ryan’s eyes meet his. Shane nods. And then Ryan starts to squeeze.

The pressure’s there and gone in less than a second. With it goes Ryan’s weight: Shane blinks and he’s bouncing up, springing to his feet on the mattress like a disobedient child.

“NOPE!” Ryan shouts. “No. N-O. Fuck you, ghost! Fuck you. If I’m going to murder Shane, it’ll be on my own terms! You don’t get to use me to do it! _Fuck_ you. This is some serious bullshit.”

A lamp flies off the bedside table and nearly beans Ryan in the head. He doesn’t flinch—which is brave and badass, but possibly not the smartest reaction to flying debris, so Shane leaps to his knees and grabs Ryan by the wrist, pulling him back down. A flung fireplace poker just misses him and embeds itself in the wall.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Shane shouts, although to be perfectly honest, he kind of hopes it is. “You’ve really lost your subtle edge!”

Ryan squeezes his hand. “Yeah, at first I was like, ‘This is clever!’ Now—” Ryan mimes an exaggerated yawn “—clichéd.”

“Yeah like, we’ve all seen _Poltergeist_. Enough already!”

The tripod holding their static cam lifts up off the ground, launches across the room, and crashes through the far window, after which Shane can only presume it plunges three stories to the stone drive. Which solves one of their problems, he supposes.

Ryan turns to him and smiles. He’s shaking wildly, tears pricking at his eyes, but still, that smile— “I guess they didn’t appreciate our cinematic critique.”

“Some ghouls dish it out but they can’t take it. They have to run back home to their _mummy_.” Shane nudges Ryan’s shoulder. “Get it? Mummy?”

“That’s terrible and I would be embarrassed for you but I’m too busy being embarrassed for these pervy, pathetic ghosts.” Ryan lifts his head defiantly as the bureau rattles and topples over and the logs in the fireplace explode and the mirror atop the mantle shatters into hundreds of shards of glass. He raises his voice and screams. “I’d tell you to eat my entire ass, but Shane already did!”

Ghosts are real, Shane is naked, and he’s more terrified than he’s ever been in his whole life, but he did, in fact, recently eat Ryan’s entire ass, so it’s not all bad. He laughs, drunkenly, helplessly, clutching at Ryan, and each of them hold the other up as the room tears itself to pieces around them.

Then suddenly there is silence, and light.

The light is the moon. It’s pearly white clean moonlight, drifting down through a significant hole in the ceiling, and apparently subsequently the roof. Shane uncurls his head from Ryan’s shoulder and looks at him. He has plaster dust in his hair.

“I think we did it.”

“Did what?” Ryan’s voice is raw. He pats Shane’s cheek—not quite tender; more like he’s assuring himself that Shane is real.

Shane grins and turns his mouth into Ryan’s palm. After a brief press of lips he pulls back.

“We sexorcised them.”

“Oh my _god_.” The look of pure disgust on Ryan’s face is worth everything, almost.

No. It is.

He feigns innocence. “What?”

“How long have you been sitting on that?” Ryan adjusts something no doubt bizarre that Shane’s hair is doing, although if Shane looks even half as insane as Ryan does right now, it can’t possibly do much good. The gesture is nevertheless enough to make Shane want to start composing poetry.

“Like almost from the first moment we got possessed. I thought, ‘Oh shit, we’re possessed!’ And then immediately after, ‘Sexorcism joke.’”

“I think you mean, ‘Oh shit, we’re possessed—Ryan’s been right about everything, always!’ And _then_ your stupid pun.”

“It’s not stupid; it’s a fantastic new service the Ghoul Boys can offer.”

“We are _not_ offering that.” Ryan scratches at the plaster dust/dried come mixture tracking strange patterns on his chest; that’s going to be a bitch to clean/explain later. Which sparks off a whole series of thoughts that are a little too much for Shane right now.

How ridiculous and worrisome to ponder the fact that part of him would prefer to stay here with Ryan in their destroyed spirit sex dungeon, rather than face the real-world consequences of their actions. One of the things that has always—theoretically—bummed Shane out about ghosts is the idea that they’re all trapped in the same moment, repeating their deaths or some other sick cycle, over and over and over, again and again with no release. Never anything new to see or taste or experience, to discover.

Well, Shane has certainly made a swath of interesting discoveries tonight, to say the least. And some of them, anyway—he’d like to see where they lead.

So, like Ryan, Shane tries to be brave: “Not even privately?” he says. “Maybe as a sideline?”

Ryan arches a brow. “Private Sexorcists?” 

“You can wear a trench coat,” Shane promises. “And a fedora.”

“ _During_ the sexorcism?”

Shane spends a moment picturing this; then he nods vigorously. Plaster dust rains down all over them.

Ryan laughs, and twists Shane around, and they break what’s left of the bed.

“You got it, partner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kids, don't use hair gel as lube.


End file.
